The Loony Bin
by quintenttsy
Summary: This is kind of a 'What happened to Luna Lovegood' Luna/Harry.


The hall of St. Mungo's Spell Damage ward was dark and brooding, much like most of the patients. Harry Potter's footsteps echoed throughout the hall, reverberating on the whitewashed walls. He didn't even know why he was there.

"It's okay," Neville assured him quietly, as if picking up on his unease. "The first time is always hard. But it gets better. I promise."

"But I don't even know why I'm here," Harry said desperately. The sense of desolation that skulked the corridors of the Spell Damage ward was starting to suffocate him.

"You're here because she asked for you," Neville reminded him gently. "You're here because you're the only one who can save her."

"But I'm through with all that 'Chosen One' crap," Harry muttered, looking around furtively.

And it was true. Voldemort was dead and gone, and he wasn't coming back. Of course, they had lost plenty of witches and wizards in the fight. Fred Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin to name but a few. But one of the most tragic was Luna Lovegood.

No one knew what had happened to Luna while she was held captive by Voldemort's Death Eaters in Azkaban, but they could guess. And nobody's guesses were particularly pleasant. Nor were they particularly accurate. Many had called her crazy or 'Loony' before, but now they were right. She was clinically insane, and no amount of medicine or magic could help.

The workers at St. Mungo's were at a loose end. Since they did not know what had caused her illness, they had no clue how to deal with it. They didn't know what was wrong with her, they could only assume it was caused by magic. So they left her in her bed, where she would stare into space all day. Sometimes she would eat. Sometimes she would get up and walk around. Never would she talk.

Save for two words. Just two. Harry Potter. Hence why the aforementioned wizard was now hurrying through the corridors of The Spell Damage Ward with Neville Longbottom, since he was similarly visiting his parents, driven mad by the same people who had tortured Luna.

"Bye Harry," Neville whispered, inclining his head towards his parents' beds. With a supportive smile, he trudged over to them.

Luna's bed was only a few beds down from there. Suddenly, Harry was overcome with a sudden urge to run. But something stopped him.

He approached Luna's bed cautiously. She was lying there, her small, papery hands clasped across her chest, her white blonde hair streaming away from her pale face. She looked so peaceful he would have thought she was dead were it not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "Luna? It's me, Harry."

She didn't even blink. She just stared at the ceiling with her beautiful blue eyes, dulled by depression, a mere echo of her former self.

Harry was lost. He could fight dragons single-handedly, he could dispatch a team of Death Eaters with a single wave of his wand, he could even defeat the infamous Lord Voldemort. But he had no idea what to do next.

He sat down in a chair and pulled it closer to the bed. It screeched painfully across the polished floor. Harry winced; Luna didn't.

"So how are you?" he asked. Only when the words were out of his mouth did he realise how stupid they sounded. "Sorry. Stupid question. I'm good. Life's been a lot less interesting since Voldemort, but who's complaining?" He was silent for a moment. "Me and Ginny broke up. She wasn't right for me. Ron was pissed at me for ages and threatened to beat me up, but he got over it."

Luna's fingers twitched slightly. Harry didn't know if this was a good sign or not. He hated seeing her like this. Where was the Luna he used to know? The one who believed in Nargles, Wrackspurts and Crumple Headed Snorkacks. The one who didn't care that her classmates picked on her incessantly and stole her stuff. The one who was so blissfully unaware of the evil world around her.

He must have said this aloud, because Luna spoke for the first time.

"She's gone." Her voice was hoarse, raspy, cold. Nothing like her light, gentle, easy-going former self.

"What did they did they do to you, Luna?" Harry whispered.

She lifted her head and looked at him with her haunting, lifeless eyes. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, she lay back on her pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

"Visiting time is over," a worker called.

Harry found, to his intense shame, that he was relived he had an excuse to leave.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said softly, and he knew he would be. He would be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that until she got better. Because she _would _get better. He would make sure of that. "Goodbye, Luna."

He turned on his heel and strode over to where Neville was waiting. Harry didn't look at him; he didn't want to see the pity in his eyes.

"It gets better," Neville repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "It gets better."

Harry could only nod listlessly. He followed his friend out and didn't look back.

Had he done so, he would have seen the dewy tears glistening on her eyelashes and the pure, unadulterated sorrow written all over her face.

But then she blinked, and the echo was back.


End file.
